Funny, isn’t it, how hard to describe a good man? In the shower, I let the water run hot as my blood filtering a mirror of loss. The messenger arrived flustered as feathers falling to the place where feathers go to find each other. Who is the man who makes you remark, “I have been lucky”? How does the faucet instruct forgiveness? Our voices spiral to meet with too much space between. My cuticles shine like chrome under the moment’s remains. A demand for nakedness pools somewhere down the drain. For what we’ve been able to let go, and know it happens to us all.
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